The Commonwealth Survival Guide
by masseylass
Summary: The less talked about aspects of traversing the wastes, like dealing with embarrassing body functions, raging about settlements, and finding sweet, sweet love. An informal guidebook by Sole Survivor Nate, sprinkled with hyperbole.
1. Preface

Welcome to the Commonwealth Survival Guide, based loosely on the Wasteland Survival Guide, tailored to keep you safe in this shitstain of an apocalypse. I'm Nate, and I'm writing this from the wreckage of a crashed vertibird.

Allow me to start by saying that I am an INFP, known as the "Mediator" type in the free personality test somebody jacked from Meyers Briggs. _"__All that is gold does not glitter; not all those who wander are lost; the old that is strong does not wither; deep roots are not reached by the frost."_ That's right. They just quoted Tolkien at me. What this means is that I'm a diplomat, and an idiot. Over the last few months of my life, I have joined the Minutemen, the Railroad, and the Brotherhood of Steel in tedious succession. The Minutemen know I'm hanging out with the Railroad and they support me, but I avoid talking about the Brotherhood (which is awkward when a group of 18th century colonial gunslingers walk by when I'm strutting around in power armor. _Totally not me guys, I swear._) The Railroad knows I'm with the Brotherhood and they haven't kicked me out because their leader is desperate, and I bring in most of the cash they need for their stupid costumes. And the Brotherhood? They scare the shit out of me. I don't tell Maxson shit and I intend to keep it that way…for now.

My point is that I'm in too deep, and I keep almost dying because of it. I have five million quests, each conveniently logged into my Pipboy, and each time I complete one, five more spring up from the abyss. It's a wonder I get anything done.

That being said, I'd like to delve right into the meat of this before this vertibird explodes and takes me with it.


	2. Chapter 1: Food, Water and Sleep

As you likely know, I crawled out of the vault, leaving behind my dead wife and my dignity. See, a smart person would have returned to Sanctuary. Me? I wailed, vomited, and stumbled into the shrubbery.

I'm not sure if it was shock or cry-sickness or both, but when I woke up, I was in an abandoned shack, starving and desperate for water. I grabbed what was there – a box of Salisbury steak – and resumed my walk of shame into the wilderness. For days I salvaged what I could: more steak, Instamash, potato crisps, whatever I could find. As for water, I drank out of rivers and streams. Yeah…you can see exactly where this is going. (Please see Chapter 4 on illnesses to get a better idea of how embarrassing my bowel movements were.)

Eventually I ended up back in Sanctuary. I was sick but starving, exhausted but sleepless. I couldn't stomach food but my head was constantly spinning because I needed to eat. I was passing out everywhere but could only sleep for an hour at a time. This was it: I was going to die…or so I thought.

Turns out, when you have a bed to sleep on and don't eat like a frat boy stoner, your life gets a little easier. With the help of Codsworth – bless his…whatever circuitry is built around where his heart would be – I found a root cellar. The cellar contained food, _purified _water, and a big, beautiful bed. For the first time since I clawed my way out of that God-forsaken vault, I slept. And I mean I _really _slept. I popped some Rad Away, drank clean water, and wouldn't you know it, I lived.

When it comes to food, don't eat garbage. I love Blamco Mac N Cheese as much as the next guy, but seriously, you've gotta learn to cook. Finding myself in the middle of the apocalypse made me regret not learning to cook 200 years ago when I had the luxury of a functioning stove and electricity. I had to learn the hard way: hunting Radstags and learning which cuts to pull from a Yaoi Guai. It was difficult at first considering many of the animals around the area are hostile at best, but I soon realized it was well worth the effort. I slept better, and got sick less.

On that note, purified water is key. I would suggest buying from merchants whenever you get the chance. After I built up a repertoire with the Minutemen and established a few base settlements, I was able to lie down some Scavenging Stations. (See chapter 7 for more information on Settlements and how much I want to kick Preston Garvey in his colonial ballsack.) From here, settlers can scavenge for purified water that I can take with me across the wastes. That, along with water pumps and pumping stations, have saved my ass more than once. Once you find a parasite in your stool, you start to think twice about your life decisions.

Finally, beds. It should be obvious, but the better the bed, the better you're gonna sleep. Believe it or not, the ground is hard. Find yourself a good mattress. What they _don't _tell you in the Wasteland Survival Guide is that many, many insects survived the nukes, and of those insects, there are a handful who take to mattresses. Why couldn't the bedbugs, roaches, and spiders have died? You tell me. Is there a God? I'm not so sure anymore:

There is an old retirement facility near Lexington called Mystic Pines. I used to stay the night there travelling between Corvega and Sanctuary. It's a quiet spot that doesn't get a lot of raider action, so why not? Well, one night, I flopped down on an old bed while my travelling companion, Curie, poked around the building. Not seconds after I shut my eyes did I hear, "Oh, look at ze little spiders! Zere must be 'undreds of zem! How delightful!" I blinked and sat upright, inspecting my surroundings. It didn't take long before realizing that these _delightful _little beasts had made quite the impressive nest in my mattress. I pulled back a bit of foam and shined the light from my Pipboy onto the hole only to discover egg sacks upon egg sacks, all buried deep into the cushy fabric. _**Delightful. **_

Check your mattresses kids. And spiders are the least of your worries. You aren't the only bastard traipsing about the wasteland; other people use those mattresses too, and they aren't always hygienic. (Again, see chapter 7 regarding humiliating body functions.) Hunt and cook your food, drink purified water, and learn the locations of safe, comfortable beds. These three things are key if you don't want to learn the hard way like I did, with parasites and insomnia and a burning hatred for everything in existence.


	3. Chapter 2: Combat 101

Or should I say Combat 111? I slay me. But I'm actually here to talk about how _not _to get slain. In short, I still have no idea what I'm doing out here. I mean, look at me: I'm sharing my bubble space with a half a dead pilot and some burning metal. It took a lot – and I mean a _lot _– of trial, error, and injuries before I learned how to not get my ass handed to me.

Like I mentioned in the preface, I'm a Mediator. This means I prefer averted crises and am slow to pull the trigger. I am not a particularly strong man, and I wouldn't suggest to anyone without a suit of power armor that they adopt a melee weapon style of fighting; fighting close-range in the Commonwealth is going to get you killed unless you have some serious hardware*. (Below lies the exception to the rule.)

My first piece of advice to anybody new in the area is that no matter what you're fighting be it man or monster, you want to keep some distance. I learned this myself after I was shot by raiders, chased by mutant hounds, and overwhelmed by feral ghouls time and time again. It's a wonder I've held onto all my limbs. My assessment of adopting a long-range fighting style was validated in Goodneighbor when I met a kid by the name of Robert Joseph MacCready, fulltime sniper and part time pain in the ass. When he isn't busy complaining, he can tell you the benefit of sitting tight and shooting from a distance, how it saved his life growing up in a settlement full of little kids, and how he managed to survive on his own afterward. As he once put it,_ "__Always thought it was smarter to hit my targets at long range. I mean, why take chances, right?"_

And he's right; don't take those chances if you can help it. The reality is that most people coming through the Commonwealth aren't going to be badass fighter types. You're probably a merchant or a farmer or maybe a kickass mom with her family trying to find a safer place to settle down. Get yourself a good sniper rifle – doesn't matter if it shoots .308, .50 or fusion cells – and lay low. Your goal isn't to show off, it's to get to where you need to be and survive.

*That being said, swords are effing cool and it's so much fun to slice up Mirelurks on the beach. Like, you have no idea. Once you get the hang of it, it's easy. Mirelurks are fast, but don't have great range, so if you can slice their head or belly, you can get a pretty good groove going and fence with some crabs. 10/10 would recommend.

One thing I will say about comparing short to long range fighting the important of versatility. What happens when you're toting around a sniper rifle and a Super Mutant decides to come at you with a two-by-four and some attitude? My recommendation – as unintuitive as it sounds – is to get yourself a 6-crank Laser Musket. With a decent scope, you can fine-tune your charges to blow of the head of some asshole raider a hundred yards away and not expend unnecessary ammo while at the same time, defending yourself against anyone or anything coming straight at you. This just depends on how many charges you can get in before whoever – or whatever – they are reaches you. A few good cranks can be enough to stagger pretty big enemies, and a stagger buys you enough time to either retreat or crank it some more. And if you practice faster reloads, six cranks charged up at an oncoming baddie can vaporize them into a pile of ash and regret. The Laser Musket: versatility, power, control. Best used with cowboy hat.


	4. Chapter 3: Inventory Space Reality

Fuck girl-pockets. I don't care who you are or how you identify, take off your women's pants and get you some real pockets. Or at least a fannypack. If I hear Cait complain about how she can't fit anything into her tight, little britches one more time, I'm going to light myself on fire.

There are some pretty cool weapons and armor that you aren't going to want to leave behind out there. My advice? Leave them behind anyway. If not, you're gonna want belts. How do you think you carry an assault rifle, a shotgun, five pistols, some leather armor, ten bottles of whiskey and five caps around? Belts. Strap everything on and haul your dumb ass to the nearest settlement, or at least a familiar dumpster in which to unload them. Nobody loots dumpsters anymore. Your stuff will still be there, next to that discarded bottle of antifreeze, six caps and a jawless Brahmin skull. This method can also be useful with heavy weapons (think rocket launchers) in condensed places populated by raiders or mutants. If you stick some ammo and a big gun in a landmark dumpster, it may save your life from whatever group of jerks is lurking around the next corner. Once they make a move, fall back and let it rain fire.

Armor is a little easier to haul around than weapons, especially if you have a companion you can use as a Barbie doll. Use diplomacy. "Piper, you look so pretty today, wouldn't you feel even prettier wearing this synth greave and this metal chest plate?" Sure, she may say, "What the hell, Blue?" but I know she's happy to help a guy out. Besides, she'll forgive anyone who feeds her later. It's pretty cute.

Now, caps are an interesting thing to carry around. I miss bank cards. Those were the days, when you could just pull a little piece of plastic out of your pocket, stick it in a machine, and continue your day without worrying about spilling five dozen caps all over the floor of the Colonial Taphouse because you're drunk and forgot how to count. Where does one keep his caps? Everywhere. His pockets, his socks, wherever is convenient. Besides, if someone goes to rob you, you don't want to keep them in an obvious place. "Why is his asshole jingling?" one may ask. They may ask, but they will _never _dare to find out. Be smart, hide your caps.


	5. Chapter 4: Illness in the Wastes

If you are a seven year old boy, this will be your favorite chapter because it's about poop and stuff.

I don't think people understand the harsh reality of being sick in the wastes. Being sick was hard enough before the war; you miss work, feel like crap, feel like you're burdening everyone, and have to tough it out until you're better. Now, take that situation and stick yourself in the middle of an abandoned Fallon's surrounded by Super Mutants. You've got a big guy up top on the second floor with a rocket launcher, a suicider diving right for your face, and you have one second to make the choice: die, or shit your pants running because you ate some bad bloatfly meat. If you think the obvious choice is to die, you would be right. But that isn't what you did, is it, dummy? And now you're caked in exploded mutant with your pants around your ankles _wishing _you had chosen option A. I apologize. I'm projecting.

Another issue – one that I sincerely didn't foresee, and one that cannot be prevented no matter how strong you think you are – is motion sickness. With the lack of cars and planes it's a wonder this is still a thing, but it's more prevalent in the wastes than one may think. Sea-faring vessels are more common in the Commonwealth than you might realize. There's the barge that goes from the Commonwealth to Far Harbor, the communist sub Yangtze, and finally, the Libertalia. MacCready mentioned in passing that he wasn't a huge fan of sea travel (a sentiment I share) but seeing him in action was something else. Apparently, keeping a steady scope on a bobbing ship during a storm is not his forte. It would have been funny if we weren't being shot at the entire time he was groaning.

But my personal experience took place a little farther to the southwest, in the Glowing Sea. Because of the sheer distance from my settlement at Taffington, I opted to travel with Paladin Danse. The two of us signaled for a vertibird and flew there. Now, keep in mind that my feelings on sea travel and sky travel are one in the same – I'd much rather not – but I wasn't about to spend a week on foot getting shot at by raiders because I was afraid of the big, scary helicopter. We arrived in one piece and conducted our business in time. Everything looked good until an Alpha Deathclaw compromised my power armor. Danse signaled for the vertibird to return while I did my best to contain the rip. By the time the pilot arrived, heavy radiation had seeped into my suit. My Geiger counter was screaming at me to get out. I knew it was only a matter of time before I would need to, er, relieve myself. I thought that I could just sit down in the vertibird and doze until we got back to the Prydwen, but from the moment the chopper lurched into the air, I knew I was done for. I went to remove my helmet, to which Danse responded, "What the hell are you doing, soldier?" He must have sensed where I was coming from, because he then asked, "Would you rather die of radiation exposure or have to clean out your helmet?" Again, I should have went with option A, but idiots like me never learn. As soon as the vertibird docked, I unfastened the mechanical latches of my armor and collapsed on my hands and knees onto the flight deck. I then unclasped the helmet. What. A. Mistake. It clattered to the metal floor, vomit exploding all over myself and Danse's boots. But my biggest regret? My biggest regret was that I didn't see Elder Maxson standing there with his arms folded across his flight jacket, wearing his usual cold stare. He took one look at me, gave me a look of disapproval, the likes of which I hadn't seen since my mother was alive, and said, "Get yourself cleaned up." He wrinkled his nose, turned heel, and marched off. I looked up at Danse, who averages about one facial expression a week, only to find sheer sympathy painted across his face. I boycotted vertibirds for a while after that.

That was certainly the most embarrassing story I have, but not the most insulting. A child fell ill in Vault 81. Valentine and I investigated the cause of the illness, only to find a den of rabid mole rats burrowed deep within a hidden vault attached to the main one. In short, I contracted a disease from them. When I went to get evaluated by Doctor Forsythe, I expected to see some kind of Latin gibberish scrawled onto my chart. What I got diagnosed with instead was: _Mole Rat Disease. _**MOLE RAT DISEASE. **And yes, that is the "official" medical terminology. So now, when Valentine says, "Hey, kid, you're looking a little rough around the edges today," I get to follow up with "OH ThaT'S jUst mY mOLe rAT DiseASe!" Which is greeeat.


	6. Chapter 5: Off-the-Record Battles

You would not believe how many things I used to do without thinking: grabbing my wallet or car keys, having a functioning toilet with toilet paper on hand, knowing that there's toothpaste around…all things I took for granted. And some things you don't even think about until they come up, when suddenly you're reminded of how few liberties you're given in this harsh, harsh wasteland.

I was travelling with Piper down around Southie when we stopped to relax and eat lunch on a park bench. She adjusted herself in her seat, paused, and whispered, "Oh my God, you've got to be kidding me…" I took a bite of my mirelurk meat. "What's up?" She sighed. "Blue, this is _super _awkward, but…I'm gonna need to swing by a grocery store." I tittered. Being a man, I hadn't even considered _that. _I loaned her my sweater – it's seen worse days – and we did what she needed to do. We resumed our adventure and everything went back to normal now that Piper was taken care of. As I do with all my companions, Piper and I split the inventory. After she went back to Diamond City, I met up with Cait. We travelled around for a while when one day, she glanced over her shoulder and said, "We'd move faster if you kept your eyes on the road and off me arse." True, I was staring at her ass. I cleared my throat. She paused and turned around. "Well? What are you waitin' for?" Remembering the loot Piper and I had split a couple weeks back, I reached into my bag and pulled out a pink wrapper, handing it off to Cait. Her eyes widened. "Aw, shite. There's something on the back of me pants?" I nodded. She sighed. "Well that's just great! Thanks. Dunno why you keep these around, but I'm grateful." I shrugged, and answered, "It's not _that _weird. I carried a guy's brain around for a stint." "Shite," she laughed, "you keep the brain, I'll take the pad, thanks."

There are other things that remind us we're human – or synth, or ghoul – things that remind us that the Wastes are out to eat us alive. Once, Deacon and I were crouched down behind an abandoned vehicle in a parking garage, hiding from raiders. Just as we thought we'd lost them, Deacon and I locked eyes. His lips twitched. Just then, he let out the most acoustic fart I have ever heard in my entire life. Never mind that we were on the subfloor of a parking garage so the sound bounced off of every wall at least three times. "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!" screeched one of the raiders. Deacon deflated, sinking lower and lower onto the concrete. "This is how the world ends…not with a bang, but with a poot. T.S. Smelliot."


	7. Chapter 6: Romance in the Apocalypse

I guess you can say I've "dabbled." I've been with humans, synths, and ghouls, both male and female. Each have their own perks.

There have been three humans in my life since I left the vault, two women and one man. The first human was Piper, who was very easy to court because all she cares about is being a goody-two-shoes and food. Me, being a good-two-shoes, and having some very strong opinions about Power Noodles, made this a very easy match. (And between you and me, I think she's impressed that I'm semi-literate.) Piper is who I come back to when I've had a rough day. When I _want _a rough day, I hit up Cait. And when I'm frustrated and want to unwind, there's always MacCready, waiting in the VIP section of the Third Rail. He's an interesting partner, because we have so much in common: we're both apart from our sons, have lost our wives, and tend to shoot straight aside from our weird, homosexual fixation with one another. He may never shut up, but I wouldn't have it any other way. I suppose I lead the life of a pretty typical post-apocalyptic, bisexual, polyamorous guy.

As far as synths go, I've been with Danse and Curie. Danse is…frustrating. He wants to top, and that doesn't work for me, so we usually just end up fighting each other until we're left with scrapes and bruises (which isn't a bad thing at all, unless you don't get off.) Curie is sweet. I'm not sure what her former host got up to before she went into a vegetative state, but I was Curie's first, and I respect her boundaries as she learns what love and romance are all about.

And then…there's Hancock. Goddamn Hancock. I don't know what I'd do without him, to be honest. He keeps my head on straight, but that's about the only thing that stays straight when I'm with him. Sure, when he gets off my Geiger counter goes crazy, but it's all worth it. Of the people, just for _me. _


End file.
